Day 282

The mother whose child died
rocks back and forth on the ground.
She is holding her arms
as though she were cradling her child
but there is no child.  Her arms
hold unfathomable sorrow,
rage, horror, guilt
that she could not save him.
Memories of his laugh, his words, 
the sounds he made in his sleep.
Who could say that her arms
are empty?  Who could say
she is no longer a mother
because she no longer
has a child?